


the perfect weather for making mistakes

by thekissofbees



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24066319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekissofbees/pseuds/thekissofbees
Summary: Around 3 o’clock everyday, he’d start having trouble keeping himself together. His knees would start bumping into each other under the desk, his feet tapping away on the floor, his elbows shooting out on their accord, his knuckles becoming desperate for a good crack. A heat would begin building in the pit of his stomach. What was Steve up to today, he would think. That Steve, he could be getting up to all kinds of things. What was he doing at home. There was no way of knowing.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	the perfect weather for making mistakes

There are plums in the market.

That first summer still felt more real than anything before or since. If Bucky closed his eyes, he could still feel the scratchy sheets on his back, the sweat on his chest. Steve’s lips on his neck. It had been hot enough that Bucky had spent most of his evenings as naked as the day he was born, pretending to not notice the way Steve’s eyes followed him around the room.

Their furniture had been sparse but sufficient. A sofa that had been left in the apartment by the previous tenants, a card table and two folding chairs, gifts from Bucky’s mother. A bed. They had had a whole kitchen to themselves even: a stove and a sink. The stove required periodic kneeling down and lighting, a small production and waste of matches each time. (Bucky was of the philosophy that God intended matches for cigarettes, not stoves, but that particular stove seemed set on proving him wrong. The pilot light would go out with any gust of wind stronger than a sneeze.) There was a constant smell of gas leaking out of that stove, and for such a small appliance it seemed to emit an inordinate amount of heat. A standing fan valiantly tried its best to circulate the heat around the room, and no fan had ever been so loved or carefully attended as that one. The minute adjustments and studied changes of orientation that it experienced would have worn out a lesser fan.

Bucky knew that he had been working that summer (had he ever not been working?), but it was hard to pull to mind any specific memories of his job. It had been an office job. He assumed it was like most office jobs. He knew that there had been AC, and that the condensation from the upstairs window unit would fall on the heads of passers-by. He would take a break from his numbers to watch the drips landing on people’s hats. The only ones who would look up were children. 

Around 3 o’clock everyday, he’d start having trouble keeping himself together. His knees would start bumping into each other under the desk, his feet tapping away on the floor, his elbows shooting out on their accord, his knuckles becoming desperate for a good crack. A heat would begin building in the pit of his stomach. What was Steve up to today, he would think. That Steve, he could be getting up to all kinds of things. What was he doing at home. There was no way of knowing.

Home. The pleasure of thinking about Steve at home.

In the evenings, Bucky would bow out of an invitation to a bar, a club. A vague intimation to a missus at home would do the trick. His coworkers would shove him in the shoulder; punch his arm, half joke about the ball and chain. What a pretty girl he must have waiting for him.

And Bucky would laugh and practically skip right out the door the moment the minute hand hit 12. He’d feel that tug in his core and not care a thing about what anyone thought.

There was nothing that could put a dent in his mood, not the chickens being chased across the street by a hollering Mrs. Bruno, or the men sleeping under the bridge, or the too-thin girl in her mother’s clothes batting her eyes at him. The dandelions growing in the cracks were as bright as the sun. The signs of war were creeping in, and perhaps if Bucky had been less in love he would’ve read the auguries bleeding out across the newsprint, but as it was all he saw was the new mural at the community art center. A sparrow chirping to her lover in the rain, the sound of breaking glass, the steady pulse of a hammer—the walk home was a dance.

And oh! The pleasure of getting the missus little things here and there. Things Steve would roll his eyes at; tell him he shouldn’t have wasted the money buying. Things to put the color in his little lady’s cheeks. A bundle of gardenias—a truly indecent explosion of creamy flush. A box of chocolates. A smooth stone, found in an alley on the walk home. A plum.

Watching the juices roll down Steve’s chin—Bucky would have paid a lot more money than what he did for that sight. For the pleasure of walking in the door, loosening his cheap tie and sitting down on the couch, legs spread wide. Steve glancing at him from under his eyelashes, that old game of cat and mouse starting up again.

The humidity would roll down the walls, warping the already peeling paint.

Some nights they would take it slow. Bucky would peel himself out of his clothes, watching Steve’s eyes widen. Steve would dash to the windows, hissing about the church next door, the people lining up for the soup kitchen. No one could blame us, not in this heat, Bucky would say. It’s the perfect weather for making mistakes. Still, Steve would say. That blush rising in his face once again.

(Oh that blush—!)

Bucky would watch Steve sweat over that stove, la Virgen María, Madre Nuestra (another gift from Bucky’s mother) staring down at them from her frame above the sink. Bucky would lean against the door-frame in his shorts, looking at Steve’s slender backside. Steve would be burning something in their one pan, cursing under his breath. Bucky would wrap his arms around Steve’s waist, admire their contrasting skin, perhaps try to reach a hand around in front, get swatted away.

He’d wait Steve out. Eat Steve’s cooking on the couch, moaning around bites. Lick the grease off his fingers. Sing along to the hymns flowing out of the church next door, dance rumba with the broom as a partner. Hips and shoulders. It was too easy to wind Steve up, honestly. Touch him on the knee once or twice, run a finger gently across the back of his neck, bite along the shell of his ear…

Sometimes he couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand to wait that long. He’d bend Steve over, ignore his half-hearted protests about the water almost boiling. The heat made everything easy, made everyone crazy. It just took one press and he could have his fingers inside, feel the stretch of Steve’s body around him. A few quick minutes and he could have Steve jack-rabbiting underneath him, his hands grabbling for something to hold onto. He’d wrap one hand loosely around Steve’s neck, keep him from falling on his face onto the floor. He’d rub himself across the crack of Steve’s ass, the place where his fingers pushed inside.

Steve would come in a big rush onto the floor. You better clean that up later, he’d say, while Bucky scooped him up in his arms. (Steve had been so light.) Okay baby, Bucky would say.

But anyway. It was no longer summer _._ Bucky puts the plum back down. The sun is setting.

***

Bucky?

Yes?

Do you remember?

Remember what?

What I promised.

Yes.

***

We are in the kitchen of our shitty apartment. You remember which one? You are watching me chop a tomato, the juices dripping off the cutting board, my hands getting sticky with seeds. It’s too hot. We’ve got a window cracked open, music from the church next door leaking in over top our radio. I ask you what you think you’re doing, just standing there watching me like that. You laugh, run a hand through your hair. What else can I do, you say. With you looking so good and all. The sauce on the stove is bubbling. I’m self-conscious. There’s sweat dripping down my chin. Put more basil in, I say. Make yourself useful.

We have a basil plant on the sill, its leaves pressed up against the dirty window, straining for light. You pluck off a few of the leaves and pop them into your mouth, laughing at my frown. Into the sauce, not your mouth! I say. You wrap your arms around me, crowding me up against the counter. Sorry Stevie, you say, mouthing at my ear. Don’t start with that, I say. I’d like to eat in the near future. You grin and step away, leaving one hand at the small of my back.

The radio smudges for a moment with static, and then the kitchen is filled with the sounds of mambo. You are humming, laughing. You tug me towards you. You are always so golden in my memories, your skin roasted dark brown. I protest, you expect me to protest and so I have to. My hands are all tomato-y, I say. Let me wash them at least. You place my hands at your waist instead, staining your white undershirt. Dance with me Steve, you say. Where the neighbors can see? There are people right out there, I say. I lay my head on your chest anyway.

***

“I need to go,” Bucky said.

Steve looked at him. “I know,” he said. He didn’t really know. He didn’t know why Bucky ever had to leave, honestly. He had told Bucky that he didn’t want him to move in, yes. But he had assumed that Bucky would see that statement for the lie it was. And yet for some reason each night Bucky faithfully plodded home to his mother, leaving Steve with a chaste kiss on the cheek and a promise to see him tomorrow.

“Well alright then,” Bucky said. He turned away, picking up a shoe off the floor.

“I heard you went out the other night with Gloria,” Steve blurted out, abruptly. He didn’t really think Bucky had done anything with Gloria, not really. But he didn’t like the idea. Bucky: out with other people.

“Yes?” Bucky asked, curiously. Bucky went out with lots of girls. They all looked pretty much the same. Either Bucky had a type or his mother did. Usually Steve didn’t bother asking about any of them.

“I suppose you’ll ask me to be your best man one of these days,” Steve said, feeling contrary, putting his shirt back on.

“What?” Bucky’s mouth fell open slightly. His hair was mussed from where Steve had been running his fingers through it, that infernal pomade finally loosening its grip.

“I mean, I think you could do better than Gloria, but she might be a nice wife.” Bucky kept staring at him. “Probably would keep a neat house for you. Is she a good cook?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky leaned back against the wall. His face was going slightly gray around the edges.

“Well figure that out. That’s important of course. She’s got those big hips, she could give you a few kids I bet. You’d probably have to move out of the city though, get them some fresh air maybe. You could afford it in a few years, the way the company is paying you now. I bet they wouldn’t mind transferring you, you’re management material for sure.” An intake of breath. “What? You are.” Steve kept talking, the image starting to become sharper in his mind. “A boy and a girl. Or do you want more than that? Your mama would probably move in with you. I’m sure Gloria wouldn’t mind that. Or whoever. Wouldn’t have to be Gloria. Another girl. You could go to California.”

“And what about you?” Bucky’s hands were starting to do something spasmodic on the shoe.

“Me? Oh. I’d travel I guess. Draw advertisements maybe.”

“Would you have a girl too?”

Steve laughed. “Oh, I guess so. Some dark haired chick. Big red lips and sharp nails. A real harpy.” There was something cold slipping through his veins.

“And you’d be happy?”

“Sure. I’d come visit you sometimes. In Cali. See the kids, the sunshine. You’d show me what car you’re working on in the garage.”

Silence.

“I need a drink.” Steve got up, poured himself a glass.

“I could use one too.”

Steve looked at him. “Right before you go home to your mother? She’ll smell it on your breath.” Bucky shrugged.

Steve sat back down on the edge of the bed, Bucky on the couch. So he wasn’t leaving yet then. Steve fought back a surge of satisfaction.

“I don’t want to go to California,” Buck said, slowly.

“O.K. All the better. Easier for me to visit you. I can teach your son to play baseball. Properly, not the way you play.”

“Would you have a son?”

“Oh no. Me and the wife would get separated pretty quickly, probably. She’d go back to the Old Country and I’d stay right here. Send a letter every now and then.”

“Wouldn’t you miss her?”

“Naw. It would be more of a friendship than anything, between me and her.” Bucky put his head between his knees. “Buck?”

“What.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You wouldn’t love your wife.”

“Oh. Don’t worry about that. You’d love yours, don’t worry.”

Bucky slowly raised his head. Glared at him. “What. The. Hell.” Steve laughed. “You are such a fuck up.”

“I know.”

“Just fucking wandering around, talking about fucking hypothetical fucking wives, like a total fuck up. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Fuck you too,” Steve said, cheerfully. Something burned in his chest.

Bucky swallowed the rest of his drink in one go. “Fuck,” he muttered. Steve watched his adam’s apple bob, the quick slide of the drink down his throat. Bucky pulled himself up to standing, one arm leveraging him up to his feet. He took a few slow steps towards the door again, and then stopped, staring at Steve.

There was something akin to a hurt animal in his expression. A deer lying in the middle of the road, waiting for the final blow to finish it off. He looked small, as if such a thing was possible.

“I guess I should…”

Steve got up, moved towards him. Leaned in. Buck had 50 pounds on him, easily. Buck backed up against the wall. “Would you be happy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Answer me.”

“I—“

“I don’t think you’d actually be happy with Gloria, would you? With me touching someone else? _Fucking_ someone else?”

“Steve.” Steve put his arms on either side of Bucky on the wall, effectively trapping him there. “ _Steve._ ”

“In fact, I think you want to be the only one to ever touch me. You want to be the only one I ever give anything to, isn’t that right? You think I’m yours.” His hands were on Bucky’s shoulders now, somehow. Bucky made a high-pitched sound. “Isn’t that right?”

“I—yes.”

“And you’re mine.” He stroked Bucky’s hair, putting the strands back in place. “You don’t want anyone else.” There was a tear rolling down Bucky’s face.

“Yes.” He put his hand on Steve’s chest, pushed him away. Steve stumbled back. Bucky swiped angrily at his face. “You fucking—you had to tell me this now, just as I was leaving!”

Steve smiled, suddenly helpless. Bucky wrapped his hand up in Steve’s shirt, yanked him towards the couch. With a big shove sent him falling back, sprawling out across the couch. Steve’s elbow hit the side of the sofa uncomfortably. Bucky knocked his knees apart, and then with one smooth movement knelt on the floor. He pulled Steve out of his shorts, wrapping his mouth around him desperately. He was immediately sucking at him furiously, hard licks and pulls around him, his other hand desperately trying to unzip his pants, trying to pull them down far enough to get a hand inside.

Steve came unexpectedly down his throat, and then a moment later Bucky was moaning around him, rubbing himself frantically through his pants and then coming, coming, coming in a rush—

“Well,” Bucky said, pulling off. They stared at each for a moment. “Now I really do need to go.”

“Too bad,” Steve said.

Bucky sighed. “Was this just—is this—is this just a game you’re playing?”

“Playing?” Steve asked, a vague sense of horror creeping up on him.

“Never mind,” Bucky said, standing up, walking to the door yet again. He put on his shoes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He kissed Steve’s cheek and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Steve sat there for a moment. There was semen drying on his knee. His elbow hurt. He put his face in his hands. That felt overly dramatic. He straightened up.

He got out his notebook. Drew a hand.

Bucky’s hand.

The fingers were wrong. Bucky’s nails were wider. He tore out the page and put it aside.

_Dear Bucky,_

_~~How could you think~~ _

_~~I’m not a f~~ _

_~~I feel~~ _

_I wasn’t playing. ~~Obviously you know~~ I care very much about you. ~~We have~~ ~~I don’t~~ ~~I am~~ You know how I feel about you. ~~I think that I am~~ I think that I might be falling in love with you. ~~It’s okay if~~ ~~I’m sorry~~ I don’t expect you to feel the same way about me. But I meant what I said. I’m yours for however long you want me in whatever way you want me. To the end of the line. _

_Yours,_

_S_

_***_

Bucky hadn't written back. He had burnt the letter. Steve had known immediately, the next night. Taken one look at Bucky's swollen eyes and backed right off.

"It's not that I don't feel the same," Bucky had said. 

“I get it,” Steve had said. “Don’t worry. I promised, didn’t I?” Bucky had laughed, an awful sound. “Whatever happens. I meant it.”

“I just can’t say it,” Bucky had said. “You understand anyway, don’t you?”

***

Here’s another memory for you. This is one of those that wakes me up breathing hard in the middle of the night.

You’re strapped down on that table, your eyes lost, dreamy. You look like your old man used to after he’d shot up. Your chest rises and falls shallowly. I call your name, quietly. Press a hand to your cheek. Try not to caress you. Hi, you say. Smiling that big grin. You’ve smiled the same way all the years I’ve known you.

I untie you and haul you up off the table. You are so cold. I had imagined this differently, you say, winking at me. We stumble. Your legs are giving out underneath you. What’s the big hurry? You say, slurring your words. Buy a girl dinner first? I adjust you so that you’re leaning more heavily on me.

Steve, you say. I daresay you’ve _grown._ I’m dragging you out the door now, halfway carrying you. That wasn’t my idea, you say, talking to I-don’t-know-who. Can you change him back? You are talking so loudly.

Buck. I say. Look. Can you be a little bit quieter? I’m trying to get us out of here.

A sudden clarity shines in your eyes. _Oh,_ you breathe. You stop us suddenly, a strength I wasn’t expecting. Steve, you say, struggling to pull yourself back up to vertical. Steve, honey, I’m so sorry, but I’m dead. This is a dream.

***

Stevie, I think this might be it. 

Stevie. You haven’t called me that in a long time.

I have to tell you—

Don’t you dare say it.

You should hear it. I should’ve told you a long time ago. I should’ve told you that first time.

Don't.


End file.
